A fucking arsenal. Enough firepower to keep Afghanistan lethal for a year. The two brothers, Remington rifles, grenades, ran to the front of the building.
The remaining two:
Bethany, appearing strung out and spaced, held a shotgun in her thin arms. Then Bine…fuck, I recognized him. Ronan Wall, the swan killer, the psycho brat, shielded by money and upbringing, to get to this-massacre of handicapped kids.
Like fuck.
He was barking at Bethany and I felt a twinge of sorrow for her. She hadn’t told, had shown up, knowing we’d be waiting, and had that awful expression of the truly doomed, nigh pleading,
“Do it.”
Mr. Macho, having torn her a new arsehole, began to arm up. A bandolier of shells around his shoulder, a Glock in his hip holster, and the piece de resistance, the Remington Pump, in the neighborhood of my Mossberg but not as rapid. The guy loved hardware. Starring in his own movie, he racked the pump, pushing shells into the chamber like a good un. I was about to send his movie straight to video. He slammed the van door, then marched towards the back school door. I stepped out, said,
“Hi buddy.”
He turned around, stunned. His mind couldn’t quite collate the scenario. He said,
“Fucking Taylor, always fucking Taylor. The fuck is with you man, following me around?”
I said,
“I like swans.”
As they say in literary novels, a frozen tableau. The word tableau gives that careless hint of learning but not pushing it. Ronan finally got it, turned to Bethany, said,
“You cunt.”
Shot her twice in the face. I clubbed him with the Mossberg and he went down fast-not out, but dazed. I moved to Bethany, cradled her head in my arms for a moment, tried not to look at her devastated face, muttered,
“Thank you.”
If she heard me, she gave no sign, just a soft sigh as she let go of all the troubled existence her so short life had been. I felt a torrent of rage escape as I turned back to Bine/Wall/the fuck ever. He was reaching for the Glock on his hip. I kicked it effortlessly away, pushed his legs apart, stood over him, the Mossberg pointed at his groin, reached down, pulled his top aside, and tore my Medugorje chain from his neck. He said, spitting blood and teeth from where I’d clubbed him,
“What now, Taylor? You going to shoot me?”
Gave a harsh laugh, pushed his hand towards me, commanded,
“Help me up.”
I put my mutilated hand in his face, said,
“Alas…”
Added,
“All I can give you is… the index finger.”
I looked down on the concrete he was lying on, said,
“See that slab you’re on? Kind of like a headstone, you think?”
He spat in my face, said,
“Get real, Taylor. I’m connected. Like, I got juice. So fold your pathetic tent and fuck off, I have history to write.”
I gut shot him.
Let him savor that awhile. Moved the barrel up to his right eye, the one the swans hadn’t taken all those years ago, asked,
“This your good eye?”
He was finally beginning to realize that maybe there was a court of no appeal, that no family, no money, upbringing, class, would step in to save him. He pleaded,
“I’m insane, don’t know what’s right or wrong, you have to get help for me. Right, Jack?”
I said,
“The thing with your good eye is you’ll see it coming.”
He did.
I pumped three shells in there and kicked his fucked-up body for good measure.
Then I was moving. As if the Hound of Heaven was nipping at my heels, thinking,
“We get out of this, I might even go back to mass.”
Heard the wail of sirens, a whole shitload of them. Kept moving. I was near the end of Forster Street when Stewart pulled over, the door open, the engine still primed, he screamed,
“Move. Fast.”
I did.
Sweat teeming down my cheeks, I glanced at Stewart. He wasn’t much better. We were past the Meyrick Hotel, turning down by the Tourist Office and into Merchant’s Road. Stewart, not booting it, desperately wanting to.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I could hear the clock, not on our side. One error and we were fucked. Outside McDonagh’s, but a docker from the water, he pulled into a vacant space near the hardware store. I opened the flask, took a deep hit, offered it. He took it, coughed, near spluttered, gasped,
“The fuck is that?”
I said,
“My own concoction, I might patent it, call it Headstone.”
He wasn’t amused but did take another hit. I was fingering the Medugorje stones like an unreasonable mantra. He asked,
“What’s that?”
I said,
“A hint of grace.”
We tried to get our respective shredded nerves in gear.
I asked,
“How’d the Guards respond so quick?”
He stared straight ahead, said,
“I called them.”
Jesus wept.
I grabbed the flask back, hit it with ferocity, said,
“Fucking great, just brilliant, Christ Almighty.”
He continued,
“Actually, I called Ridge, said she’d find two wannabe Columbines handcuffed to the front door. And that two more shooters were at the rear so to bring backup. The credit and publicity will rocket her career.”
I had nothing, so he asked,
“How’d it go for you?”
Almost dreading the answer, he knew it wasn’t going to be good.
I sighed, said,
“A lovers’ quarrel. Bine/Ronan Wall, he shot her after she opened up on him with her Browning.”
He asked the most inane question, an indication of how madness, gunplay, adrenaline affect people,
“She had a Browning?”
“She does now.”
Part of him wanted the details but most of him didn’t so he went with,
“And you think the Guards are going to buy that?”
